


For Want of a Nail

by ShakespeareanMusings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Freeform, Gen, Minor Violence, One Shot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 05:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespeareanMusings/pseuds/ShakespeareanMusings
Summary: A tale of Ice and Fire, of a House that holds an element equal to the might of dragons, of a continent split in two, of another outcome in a familiar stream.The equal to the passion of fire is the temperance of ice.One small change can alter a course. Only, it isn't so small a change actually.





	For Want of a Nail

**Author's Note:**

> Reintroducing myself again to the world of fanfics. Unbeta'd, so my apologies in advances for mistakes, my mind is a little overheated.

_Fire and Blood_. The Andal realms in the south were brought to heel by those words. Aegon the Conqueror made five of the Seven Kingdoms bend the knee for him, with fire and blood. Now, his eyes, and the eyes of his dragons, turned towards the northernmost kingdom, where the Kings of Winter reside. Torrhen Stark knew what was to arrive in the coming months; an army led by a dynasty riding the backs of great fire-breathing serpents. To bring fire and blood to those unbent. Five of the Seven Kingdoms were subject to dragonfire, and all five of them bend the knee to its master. And soon, Aegon thought, the North would follow their example. He was mistaken. The North was different than the other regions; the North represented another element, as strong as fire.

Even though dragons are fire made flesh and powerful enough to melt down castles with their breath, the First Men once faced a threat equally, if not more so, frightening than the winged beasts reigning over the sky. An element that didn’t melt the stones of castles, turned men to ashes and burnt cities to the ground. No, this element didn’t _burn_. It _froze_. It froze castles down to its foundations, stiffened the bodies of the living until they broke like twigs, cut through the flesh, skin and even bone like Valyrian steel through an adversary.

When the White Walkers were defeated during the War for the Dawn and ‘Winter fell’, they left behind a legacy. A gift for the people of the First Men. A reward some say, a warning to others. A legacy that once threatened to engulf the whole world in perpetual cold. Their Ice. True Ice. Ice that never melted, nor broke, and strong enough to cut through the stem of a tree with one strike, remaining in pristine condition even through the harshest of treatments. At first, the First Men were frightened; believing the Ice was _alive_ , the remains of their ancient enemies waiting to be pieced together like the shattered mirror of a self-absorbed and maddened Queen; in due time, but surely ever still. Then, their fears gave room to curiosity. They gathered the remnants and began to examine it, feel it with their fingers. And after that, they used it. From the ice shards left behind by the Others, weapons and armor were made. Weapons and armor of incomparable quality. They struck truer than any steel sword the North had ever forged, weighted less than the bark of wood and swept as fast as its wielder willed, only limited by the capacities of its holder.

And now, eight thousand years later, faced with crimson flames rumored to be inextinguishable, King Torrhen Stark felt the time had come to draw the ultimate test and see if ice bested fire in a dance between the elements.

* * *

 Torrhen Stark

* * *

 

 

_The banks of the Trident…_

Screeches were heard all across the sky. Unnerving. Unsettling. Frightening. King Torrhen Stark craned his neck so many times upwards he felt the muscles in them begin to grow sore. His neck mayhap protested, but his eyes all but forced him to dutifully look upwards and observe the three flying forms scouting above them every so often. His soldiers were clenching their spears anxiously, and so did his bannermen holding the sigil of House Stark, the piece of cloth gently wavering by the tugs of the winds. The head of House Stark even felt his trusty destrier become nervous at the short shrieks. Torrhen felt no need to blame him; dragons were the pinnacle of the predator realm, and if legends are anything to believe, ravenous where little seemed to quell that hunger. For other creatures to instinctively make themselves scarce when such beasts roamed around was natural. And he too, Torrhen admitted, wanted to be as far away from them. His honour compelled him otherwise.

Grey eyes glanced across the river banks, and it didn’t help to sooth his worried mind. Soldiers were lined up all over the back, all of them flaunting different colors and banners like a crude painting on a sandy canvas; the men ordained to fight for their new King.

“Subjugated by the Conqueror.” Torrhen mused broodingly, his hand holding the reins of his horse tightly to keep it firm on the its hooves. Would that become his fate too if he relented to the Targaryen? The dragonrider who brazenly declared that henceforth there would be only one King in Westeros. The folly of such arrogance. Mayhap he did have the means to back such hubris, as the dragons, as if sensing Torrhen’s indignation towards Aegon’s arrogance, loudly screeched as if reminding them of their fate should they refuse to bow.

The King in the North saw how a messenger galloped towards him hastily before pressing a small perch into his lord’s outstretched hand. Torrhen unfurled it and read it with attentive eyes.

His scouts counted forty-five thousand men during their patrols; he was outnumbered, by half his own troops. The situation seemed to get drearier by the minute.

“My lord, what are we to do?” A young man voiced out his worry in a tense whisper, and behind the small question, Torrhen was sure others were wondering the same. Young Karstark, barely hitting his twenty-and-first nameday, glanced just as his King folded away the small piece of paper.

His options were limited, and their outcomes as inevitable as the break of dawn. Fight, and taste fire and blood. Bend, and be forever known as the ‘King who Knelt’. Neither were options Torrhen wished to elect. The brown-haired King took a moment to glance around and see the faces of his high lords remaining behind him.

The warriors and lords of the North were different than those womanly southorns back in Casterly Rock, High Garden, Harrenhal and all those other places they loved to titter about. It was well known that the Reach preferred to conquer land not with swords of steel, but with extravagant marriages, marital beds and sultry gazes. The people of the Rock were no soldiers either; gilded peacocks pretending to be fearless lions was a more accurate way to describe those men clad in armor. The tale of how Lann the Clever practically ‘raped’ his way into Casterly Rock was a tale the northerners liked to tell when the faces of slick smug bastards coming North tried to brag about their gallant and heroic lions.

None of them were hardened by the kiss of winter that seemingly lingered for eternity around the northernmost Kingdom of Westeros, whose vast size was easily able to fit all the other kingdoms. All northern men, and women, were tough as nails and guided by the stern but loving hand of Mother Winter. A fair fight was something northerners never shied away from.

But this.

This was no fair fight.

This was a hopeless struggle.

The anxiety of the men who Torrhen knew would lay down their lives for the North was tangible. Not because they would fight a larger army, or a stronger military ruler. No, the Targaryens held a far more unfair tarot card in their hands. The sounds coming from the sky were what made his men shiver and making them feel like fresh runts recently separated from the litter.

Word reached the Winter King how Aegon Targaryen faced the combined armies of the Reach and the Westernlands, the two richest lands in Westeros, and set fire to more than nine-thousand soldiers in only a matter of seconds. Gold won wars, a principle the Reach and the Westernlands were all too familiar with and abided to the word. But, dragonfire won wars likewise.

“Ready the men, Lord Karstark.” The Lord of Karhold tensed visibly, scared what might be the next words and hoping they weren’t the ones he feared. “We will retreat to Moat Cailin. Facing the dragonlord in open battle will only bring about a second field of fire” Relief washed over Middlejon Karstark, brother of three Jon Karstarks, and nodded to his liege as he guided his horse away from the hill overlooking the Trident banks, mind set on spreading the order. Torrhen then spurred his horse and moved to ride away as well, his entourage following closely behind. And so, the small army was made to mobilize back North before the entirety of the bulk arrived, as most of it did not yet arrive at the Trident. King Torrhen rode ahead of the main host to observe and assess what he was facing, and now that he knew, the King in the North thanked the judgment of his advisors to not let the entire army march with them. For certain, Aegon would not have let him march peacefully back if his entire army was around.

* * *

Torrhen Stark

* * *

 

 

“Our only hope is to make a stand here, in Moat Cailin. For thousands of years the Andals have tried to march on the North, and for thousands of years Moat Cailin repelled every effort.” One lord argued and earned concurring murmurs. A different lord rose to challenge his stand.

“I expect nothin’ from these soft southern flowers! One northerner fights for the worth of ten southerners!” Rounds of agreements echoed in the hall as men drummed on their tables. “I say we meet their armies in open battle instead of draggin’ this on into a bloody siege and show ‘em that we do not bend to their will!” The roars were heard all across Moat Cailin, Torrhen was sure of it. The army could have heard Lord Willem Glover’s boisterous proclaim and feel the rush of confidence the Lord of Deepwood Mottle tried to ignite inside his fellow bannermen. The debates didn’t seem to end however, as more lords added their own heated words into the pyre. Torrhen heard none of their fiery words. He would allow the lords to think that they mayhap could come with a solution to the problem at hand. They never knew their liege had already one; a solution that could perhaps preserve their independence.

The King rose from his seat at the table, startling his lords as the room grew quiet.

“My King? We have yet to hear your thoughts on this matter.” Cregan Mormont wondered as he too began to stand up from his chair, only to be stopped by his King’s hand.

“Sit, Lord Mormont. I have come to a decision.” The tension grew as Torrhen drank in the various nervous looks of his vassals when he was about to announce that he made up his mind. The King scratched his auburn beard for a second, contemplating over his next words.

“My lords… The time has come to let fire meet ice.” Confusion nestled in the eyes of Torrhen’s bannermen. He continued. “I will ride for Winterfell… And bring along with me the Winter Regalia and face this dragonlord myself.” A pregnant silence fell over the hall and the lords of the North were murmuring fervently amongst one another. The Winter Regalia was a set of armor made from the remains of the Others. A full set of armor made of True Ice complete with sword, spear and shield of equal material. It had never been used in combat. Nothing proved to be a reason for it to be used in the first place; it was deemed unnecessary. For the King in the North to bring _that_ into battle… It was a true shot in the dark. “I will challenge Aegon _and_ his dragons to face me in single combat.” Rounds of protest now filled the room. It was utter madness to even contemplate that! His lords were not too keen on the prospect of having their king face a fearsome monster such as a dragon and made a pile of ash. Torrhen silenced them with a tempered frown, and no lord present dared to further word their discontent.

The King in the North made a quick gesture with his chin towards a young man, prompting him to draw nearer. “Ride for the dragonlord’s encampment; tell him the King in the North wishes to settle this. The old way. Between him and I. If I win, he is to recognize the North as an independent Kingdom. If I fall in battle… The North will bend its knee.”

Nodding curtly, he made way for the exit to endeavor on his journey towards the Conqueror’s army. Sighing deeply, Torrhen Stark dismissed his war council and watched how his lords wandered away, not before parting with a respectful bow of their head towards their liege. And when it was done, Torrhen Stark rode for Winterfell with the haste of a soon-to-be-father.

* * *

 

Aegon Targaryen

* * *

 

_Aegon’s encampment…_

_A sennight later…_

“He wishes to combat you? _With_ Balerion?” Visenya incredulously spoke, her tone almost scandalized. “Has life started to lose its meaning for this _King_?” Her voice was laced with mock as she uttered the last words. Was this man so foolishly brave? Or bravely foolish to even offer this? Aegon Targaryen pondered her words as he glanced at the map sprawled over the table, Visenya not too far away from his side while Rhaenys lied comfortably over a couch, not even bothering listen to her brother-husband and sister while they discussed their plans of war. A gloved hand glided over the region north of the neck, the Kingdom of the North and home to the First Men and Aegon scrunched his eyebrows in concentration.

The blood of the First Men predated even those of Old Valyria and the history of the North was as famous as theirs. History had dictated that the Andals failed in every attempt to bring down the North, for six thousand years long, and Aegon Targaryen had no choice but to admire the Kings of Winter for their resilience. _Unbowed, unbent and unbroken._

No more.

The messenger was delivered only moments ago, with the boy leaving within a blink when his sister-wife Visenya glowered at him, mayhap unintentionally, with her bright lavender eyes as he was finished delivering his message.

“This is… certainly an interesting proposition.” Aegon mused while his hand went for his chin, rubbing it in thought. The King of Winter’s offer was short, simple but conveyed the necessary message.

_Best me and I will kneel_

True Northern sentiment.

Torrhen Stark must have realized that his army wouldn’t stand a chance in battle. Aegon outnumbered them after all, and not even mentioning his dragons; he would have rained fire and utterly crush them just as he had done with the other kings before their army could touch Aegon’s. Hence the messenger he sent to challenge him to a battle. It made sense; a king declaring a one on one combat with another king. The old way as his half-brother Orys grinned. Even his Baratheon half-brother couldn’t help the nod of respects towards those Northerners.

_Your dragon may help you in your effort_

Aegon _almost_ wanted to scoff at Torrhen’s arrogance, and felt slighted as the King of Winter boldly told him that he’d face him and his dragon, and them alone. Aegon folded the paper neatly and placed it on the table.

“If he’s so keen on meeting his death by dragonfire, humour the fool then.” Unlike Visenya’s stern and strong voice, this one was sweet and alluring to the ear, and sinful to him when they were alone. Rhaenys stretched her body on the couch and raised her impeccable face to smirk at her brother. “The message says it easily; defeat me and the North is yours.” Yes, that was the meaning in plain sight. Aegon couldn’t help it however; his mind was going through a thousand thoughts, but the most prevailing one was the subdued anger the Targaryen felt towards the King of Winter. He dared to think that Balerion and he wouldn’t burn his bones to ashes? That they couldn’t?

The sound of a mantle snapped in the air as Aegon Targaryen left his tent and marched outside. The soldiers going about their duties briefly halted their work to nod, either in respect or fear, towards their new liege. The silver-haired dragonrider kept on marching, and faintly, he heard the voice of his first sister-wife call out to him. Her words were drowned away though in Aegon’s mind, as slowly cold fury started to build inside the self-proclaimed King of Westeros.

“He wishes to witness dragonfire? Then I shall grant him his foolish wish.”

Just above him, the skies were filled with the roars of the great serpents. Balerion easily dwarfed his siblings Meraxes and Vhagar, and his notorious epithet was well earned. Balerion was the largest of all the Targaryen dragons; his flames were as dark as midnight but as searing as the hot molten blood of a volcano. His wingspan could blot out the sun if stretched from wing to wing and his roars made the soils of the earth tremble in fright. Were it not for the fact that Aegon had the blood of Old Valyria flowing through his flesh, he’d be sure to tremble in his presence as well.

“ **Naejot nyke Balerion!** ” An earth-shattering roar traveled through the sky, and Aegon’s army momentarily froze in its spot in fright as the black dread began descending towards its master’s call. The earth shook as Balerion landed on his scaled claws, and with a final screech did he silence. Aegon climbed the dreaded creature as it lowered its wing to allow its master to ascend him. And then, The Black Dread took flight, blowing away dust, leaves, tents and even making a couple of soldiers stagger who stood too closely to look at the magnificent creature.

Balerion and its master flew through the clouds, and Aegon casted one final look below to see his army shrink and shrink further until they resembled frantic ants littered around the earth. He turned back, and with eyes set ablaze did the great Targaryen conqueror head north, mind, body and soul hellbent on bringing King Torrhen Stark the same thing he gave the other rulers of Westeros.

_Fire and Blood_

 

* * *

Aegon Targaryen

* * *

 

 

Some time now Aegon rushed through the sky on Balerion’s back. His encampment was set up near the Twins and it had been well over a couple of days since he left it in the capable hands of his sister Visenya. Wisps of moist air hit the dragonlord in the face, making it slightly difficult for Aegon’s bright eyes to cut through the clouds. It was freezing so high in the sky, Aegon could feel the cold creep inside the flesh straight to his bones. And if rumours were to be believed, the frozen lands of the North were just as cold if not colder.

How could they even manage to live in these barren conditions? The North offered little for its people to stay for; only wood and snow was scattered around. There were no riches here nor were there any splendors, just an immense wasteland.

Aegon’s mind even went further and contemplated if it was worth conquering this kingdom, as vast as it was. What did it offer him aside from all the snow in the world?

The thought lingered for a moment before it left his mind as fast as it held root as Aegon shook his head, partially to get rid of the idea and of the snow sticking to his face.

Aegon Targaryen was determined to bring Westeros, _all of Westeros_ , to heel. The North was part of those Seven Kingdoms. And thus, part of his rightful realm.

The young Targaryen wasn’t sure where he was heading towards exactly. All that he was thinking of was to head further North; to let this fool of a man called King in the North bear witness to the greatest dynasty that ever lived. And further North, Balerion went.

The day reached its peak on midday; Aegon was sure of the time as the sun had set high in the sky. Even though the flakes of snow were descending at a snail’s pace and blurring complete vision over the lands, the snow wasn’t dense enough to hinder the eyes very much. Aegon was still able to discern the ground beneath and the large strips of winter forests with their jagged peaks dipped in snow. The eyes of the dragonlord were searching around, but Aegon wondered what he was looking for.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall hill; its shape overlooked the great vastness of a white plain so large that even Aegon failed to discover an end to it, and he was currently riding the back of a dragon flying high and resolute through the winds of winter. And on top of that hill, a light shone. A sharp light, of a bright shade of blue Aegon nearly mistook it for white. Starry was the first word that sprang to mind by Aegon; it glinted like the mesmerizing lights of a star. Aegon felt like tugs were being pulled on his soul. It was beautiful.

Balerion wheezed as the usual loud beast he was, feeling its master pull at his mind and steer him towards that enchanting light.

Aegon was drawing closer and closer, compelling his trusted companion to get closer to that light. And was got close enough, Aegon Targaryen felt an emotion he didn’t feel in a long time; not since he let his eyes fall on the forms of Balerion and its mighty siblings Meraxes and Vhagar.

Wonder.

The closer he came, the better he could discern what the shining white-blue source of luminosity represented. Or rather, who it represented.

There, clad in armor made of ostensibly white metal, stood the King of Winter. Aegon recognized the fool by the crown of hammered bronze he was wearing almost arrogantly. It wasn’t bulky or difficult to maneuver through, rather, it looked light, flexible and yet durable. The shoulders, torso and most of the upper arms were clad in the metal in layers while fur hugged the edges, true northern style represented. They were matched with vambraces for the lower arms. The plate also went from around the waist protecting the hips and down till they ended just above the knees. The feet and shins were shielded by a pair of greaves resembling more like heavy boots than actual armor pieces. Torrhen Stark held a shield in one of his hand, while the other clutched a great white spear. Faintly, the Targaryen conqueror managed to make out the small details of a sword attached at the Stark’s hip, as bright as its siblings.

Whatever its purposes were, the armor certainly was a magnificent sight to see. Shame he had to burn alongside its owner.

Aegon had to stifle a laugh escaping his mouth; the King of Winter waddled about in some ceremonial piece of armor and thought he could withstand the scorching breath of a dragon? Let alone Balerion’s, the most dreaded dragon in quite some time?

Torrhen Stark was truthfully a foolish king, the folly of his arrogance knowing no depths. Slighted felt Aegon when he received the raven with the King’s words scribbled in them, but now as he watched Torrhen Stark standing there and most unmistakably realizing his presence, a sense of pity washed over the Targaryen lord.

“Despair forces a man sometimes to be blind of its own folly.” He would put the question once and for all to rest. With only a command, Aegon would make the northernmost kingdom part of his realm. With only a word, this pathetic attempt would be burned to the ground alongside its attempter.

 _“Daomio perzys va bisa mittys Balerion._ ” Immeasurable amounts of heat gathered inside the beast’s belly, expanding as more and more air transformed into fire. Aegon felt how it rumbled underneath him, how Balerion was almost done gathering enough of his fury to unleash. And when he was done, he let loose. Balerion didn’t hold back a single ember, and spew out _everything_ he had gathered inside his gigantic maw. Straight towards the King of Winter.

He was engulfed in a blaze of fire, deep scarlet flames scorching the earth and releasing a heat so unbearable that it even looked for a moment as if a volcano had awoken violently from its slumber. The ground was scorched black, stone and earth melted into one and formed a viscous stream around. Aegon just took it all in and watched how this would-be king was nothing but a shadow in the dark flames, soon to be reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. To gain a better view, Aegon got closer; he wished to see in great details how Torrhen’s body was licked and devoured by dragonfire. He watched. And he watched. And the silhouette of Torrhen Stark didn’t seem to shrink whatsoever.

 _“What is going on!? By now there shouldn’t be anything left of the man bathing in Balerion’s blaze!”_ Aegon commanded his dragon to seize its unrelenting attack, and when the stream of fire ended with only small embers flickering in and out of existence. Aegon refused to acknowledge what he was seeing right now.

“I-impossible…” There, right where the black dread moments ago opened his maw and unleashed its infernal wrath, stood a man with his shield raised in front of him, steam still rising from the shield.

King Torrhen Stark lowered the shield and locked eyes with an astonished Aegon Targaryen. A mixture of amazement, disbelief and horror were etched on the once unfaltering dragonlord and claimant to the unified realm of Westeros. Where arrogance and superiority was nestled once now gave way to disbelief and a myriad of other deeply troubled emotions.

Aegon now realized what he should have known sooner; known the moment his eyes spotted that dazzling luminosity. That it was no ordinary source of light. And that Torrhen Stark wasn’t clad in normal metals. No armor was bending when it came to fire; metal loved to dance at the tones of flames. Happily turned into hot liquid for its creator to shape and reshape again. Such wantonness love in such an inanimate relation.

No, the king’s armor was made of something far more primal, yet more powerful than anything men could have created themselves. For metal was a creation of men’s effort, forged and molted by the hands of smiths. But this material was not metal. No, King Torrhen Stark wisely wore no metal against a dragon.

He was clad in ice.

Ice that did not melt.

Torrhen was not of a mind to allow Aegon to gather his thoughts. Flawlessly, the head of Westeros’ most ancient Great House reached backwards and readied a brilliantly gleaming rod; the spear made of that same white matter. And threw it straight towards the dragonrider.

Aegon Targaryen had only the time of an eye-blink before his mind fully understood what was about to happen. With a violent and unprepared jerk to the left, his scaled mount screeched in objection, feeling itself jerk painfully at the sudden command of its master. Whatever spoke to the Targaryen, there was something that tugged at his mind to do whatever he had in his power to evade the spear hitting Balerion, _at all costs_. Torrhen’s aim was merciless, as the spear sizzled through the air and right towards the great serpent’s skull. Were it not for Aegon, that same spear would have lodged itself firmly inside the dragon’s black scales meant to protect it from any and all dangers. His head managed to escape the lethal weapon.

His right wing was not so fortunate however.

The icy spear pierced through the joint between Balerion’s wing and its body with shocking ease and embedded itself painfully in that exact place. Never had Aegon hear his beloved dragon roar with such bristled anger before, his ears threatening to bleed at the pained wails of the black-scaled dragon. Balerion lost control of itself and doddered towards the ground while black blood leaked in copious amounts from its wound, roaring and trashing angrily around. Its mastodonic size collided with the ground, throwing around snow and earth indiscriminately and scarring the once pristine soil with a straight line; Balerion’s crash was nothing if painful, as its body dragged itself through the cold ground and leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

Aegon wasn’t left with minor bruises or a few cuts as he alongside his infamous mount met the unforgiving and harsh ground. He felt himself twist and crash in ways he wished to never have someone experience, not even his greatest enemy. His white hair mingled with the dirt of the ground as well as the snow and now looked completely disheveled. Once shining metal now sported painful indentations all around them, Aegon’s armor not resilient enough to survive such a fall unscathed. A particular racking source of discomfort come from his left leg, and as the world started to spin less around him did Aegon cast a burdened look behind him and groaned at the bone sticking out of his flesh.

Lord Aegon Targaryen felt a sensation creep across his being he thought he’d never in his life would feel.

He felt as though he was burning.

Despite the cold that could cut through a men like a knife, Mother Winter wasn’t cradling Aegon in her chilling arms. Fire, he was on fire. His entire body was screaming. His mind was filled with nothing else but the hot pain scorching him. Was this what people felt when he incinerated their flesh and bones? Was this the hell he put people through as dragonfire consumed them? A surge of apprehension invaded the thoughts of the Targaryen. This was unbearable.

Hands clawed at the ground in a poor attempt to find purchase, for Aegon tried to get himself up, but only groaned with strain as the pain shot through his body and paralyzed him on the spot. Gods, he was prone to injuries before, but these were not in the slightest bit easy to shoulder or as grievous as these.

Balerion’s massive body was writhing on the ground, small whines leaving his nostrils, probably pained whimpers. Each one of them brought the dragonrider more pain; his heart clenched for his treasured mount, dare he say, his _parent_. The dragons were no mere mounts for Aegon and his sisters, they were much more than that; when the Targaryen siblings spent their childhood days on Dragonstone, it was under the safe guardianship of the three dragons. As Aegon grew up and started to become old enough to ride the mighty beasts, Aegon’s feet never found soil underneath them for too long. Visenya and Rhaenys were the same, they too rode the backs of their respective dragons longer than they spent time on the ground.

And through that time, the bond they shared with the winged serpents blossomed beyond that between a mount and rider.

For Aegon to hear Balerion whimper in pain added salt to his wounds.

Even though his mind was enveloped by the sensation of pain and anguish, the distinct sound of snow crunching beneath heavy boots permeated Aegon’s ears. Through his ruined white locks did Aegon manage to find a figure march towards him. His eyes were still bleary and specks still plagued his sight, but they slowly evaporated and allowed for the Stark king to finally step into his vision. The sight of the Winter King made Aegon Targaryen frantic; was he here to finish them both off? Their conditions were dreadful, and the bright-haired Targaryen knew he couldn’t put up a fight, not with his bone leg protruding grimly.

“Halt your movements Lord Conqueror… You will only aggravate your wounds by these attempts…”

The slight lift of his head proved to be strenuous even; as if massive rocks dangled around his neck and threatened to slam his face right back into the snow. Aegon endured through it all, despite the protests, despite the labored attempts, despite the agonizing pain, he endured and as dignified as he could possibly be, the Targaryen conqueror seethed at the Stark king through his violet eyes.

Wrought metal of Valyrian steel, that was the only way Aegon Targaryen managed to put a name to those unflinching Stark eyes gazing down upon him; a King worthy of the iron-hammered artifact as seemingly uncomfortable as the Crown of Winter. Torrhen’s jaw was clenched tight and firm, his dignified body betraying no discomfort and looming over the fallen Targaryen like a terrifying fortress over an ill-prepared army. His form was robust and brawny as though carved from stone itself by the hands of the most meticulous sculptor of Old Valyria.

Mern Gardener and Loren Lannister were bejeweled kings of the south, clad in dashing armor wrung by the hands of rich-made smiths while crowns of ornamented gold and precious gemstones adorned their heads, the prestige of such jewels rivaled only by the perverse weight of gold they had spent to acquire such vain tokens of power and authority.

The North had its king as well, whose emblems of prevalence equally glistened with power yet not through the hues of gold and silver. No, his badges of office was not made of tainted gold, corrupt silver or perverted gems.

His were made of true ice and stern bronze.

For the first time in his life, Aegon Targaryen found the meaning of the title ‘King’.

A pair of arms brought the Targaryen conqueror back to the world as the entire situation he found himself came crashing down on his shoulders again. King Torrhen knelt before the silver dragonlord and carefully snaked his arms under Aegon’s armpits before he turned him around on his back. The entire action caused Aegon to groan in pain, its throbbing sensation still not subsided. Sweat started to soak Aegon’s mail underneath, the frustration and strain on his body too much for him to handle by the second. The taste and smell of blood stained his senses, and finally did Aegon realize the depths of his injuries.

His once pristine black armor was dented by Balerion’s crash and some parts had even broke through his skin and into his flesh. Minor wounds and nothing a good rest and the attendance of a maester couldn’t solve. His greatest worries was the bone out of his leg, protruding angrily and causing a grimace to form on Aegon’s face. The view was dreadful, the feeling even more so and the smell it caused was unmistakably the worst of it all. The Stark King caught sight of the wound too and hummed thoughtfully as his hand scratched the scruffs of his neck.

“Your wound will be the death of you Lord Targaryen.” That was spoken truly, and Aegon made no mistake, for if left to his fate here buried in the soft and cold embrace of snow and sodden earth, the gaping gash on his leg would be the end of his glorious conquest to unite the Seven Kingdoms, and more importantly, the end of his bloodline as well.

Aegon Targaryen and his mighty dragon, felled in battle by the hands of Torrhen Stark, the bards would sing and the tales would tell, the great conqueror king left to bleed the ground scarlet and taint the snow deep red with the liquid of life. A song of fire bested by ice.

Gnashing his teeth and jaws shut tight, the dragonlord found it difficult to stomach that thought as bile rose in his throat. His conquest had come to an unexpected end.

“Finish it, Winter King.” Aegon hissed through his teeth, carried by the winds for the King in the North to furrow his eyebrows upon. Aegon found himself in a most embarrassing position; his head rested on the Winter King’s ankles, who sat cross-legged on the snowy ground, his spear and shield placed near. Blank-faced, Torrhen gave a pointed look at the man with hair as white as the snow, nothing betraying his thoughts. A knowing look crept up Torrhen’s face

“If I were to end your life, your sisters would cry for blood. Am I mistaken, Lord Aegon?” No, he was not. Rhaenys and Visenya would burn down the Seven Kingdoms in a fit of uncontrollable rage if word reached them their beloved brother found his end at the hand of the Winter King. Did Aegon find it in himself to care?

“I care not for their wrath…” He confessed through labored coughs, bringing a hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to save himself some face in front of his adversary.

“You may not care, but I do.” The King frowned. He placed a hand to his chest. “This armor, forged by my ancestors thousands of years ago, may have kept _me_ save from the fury of a dragon, but my people will have no such privilege.” Torrhen Stark’s face darkened and the King gave an accusatory look at Aegon. “Tell me Lord Conqueror, if you were to be slain today by my hand, will your sisters not use your death as a pretext to bring fire and blood to the people of the North with even greater vigor? Can you deny me this truth?”

“I cannot, and I will not.”

Then, the King in the North _smiled_ , an odd thing to see on his long and stern face.

“Good, for I shall offer you an ultimatum then, and you will not refuse it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings fellow dwellers of the ASoIaF/GoT fandom! 
> 
> An attempt at emptying my mind a bit from some swirling ideas. All thought and no expression makes for a very loaded mind! It's been a while since I've written anything, still a bit nervous to share with the world my writing again(I actually got clammy hands when I pressed 'post'... but anyway). 
> 
> I got other works lying around that I'm pretty excited to share, but the annoying tendency to go over them a hundred times to assure myself it's decent work makes me procrastinate a lot.. but that's beside the point!
> 
> I'll start sharing my works from time to time and see what the community thinks of it. If it's dull, I'll notice, if it's not, I'll try to keep up with expectations. 
> 
> PS: This is an older work I've written perhaps a year ago… I don't know if my other works are on similar par/below/above as this one, but again, I guess I'll have to see.


End file.
